


The Blindfold

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4583211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slave John has a problem with the blindfold his master Sherlock wants to use. Surprisingly, Sherlock listens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blindfold

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.
> 
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

Pleasure filled 99.9% of John’s consciousness. Well, 98%. Maybe 97%. Perhaps more like 95%.

The number plummeted rapidly as Sherlock stopped doing what he was so good at doing and rested on top of John. “You seem very tense,” he observed conversationally.

John could not see the expression on his face through the blindfold he wore, but he could picture it. “You could tease less,” he suggested.

There was a pause, and somehow the temperature in the room seemed to drop. “I should just get on with it?” Sherlock posed sarcastically, and John stifled a sigh, glad now he _couldn’t_ see the other man. “Finish you off, take what I want, and let you go to sleep?”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” John tried to tell him. It was a little difficult to express oneself with one’s hands tied to the bedpost and a blindfold over one’s eyes, but John was nothing if not resourceful, and he wrapped a leg around Sherlock’s, rubbing his calf.

“You’re thinking too much,” Sherlock diagnosed, sounding slightly mollified. “Does your back hurt?”

John squirmed against the satiny sheets experimentally. “No, it’s alright.”

“Are your arms getting tired?” Sherlock suggested. “Did I tie your hands too tight?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Well, you’re not an infant, John,” Sherlock huffed, which John thought was more than obvious. “Use your words and tell me what’s wrong.”

John hesitated. If he said nothing, would Sherlock go back to what he’d been doing, or would he give up for the evening? Or would he just keep hectoring John about it until he cracked?

“John, don’t waste your limited mental resources playing psychological games, you’re not good at them,” Sherlock pronounced. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“Mmm… Could we take the blindfold off?” John ventured.

“Is that the problem, or does the problem require a discussion with eye contact?”

“It’s the problem.”

After a moment of consideration Sherlock sat up and straddled John, leaning forward to pull the blindfold off. John blinked rapidly as the light poured in—Sherlock did not see the point of doing things in the dark, when he couldn’t observe fully—and then his vision returned, only to be filled with naked Sherlock sitting on his chest. Worse things to see, really. For example, the deductive expression on Sherlock’s face.

“Describe what you dislike about the blindfold,” Sherlock instructed, and John sighed and squirmed under him.

“How ‘bout we get back to—“

“No,” Sherlock denied. “I’m _curious_ now, John.” This was a dangerous state of being.

“I know you are.”

“Does it smell?” Sherlock inquired, holding the dark cloth up to his nose. “Or itch? I’m sure I had it washed after last time, but sometimes the laundry service here is substandard.”

Imagining the kinds of things Sherlock sent off to be laundered, John could understand why. “No, it’s fine,” he claimed. “Can we—“

“Obviously it’s _not_ fine, John.” Sherlock was not going to let this go. One could think it indicated concern for John. Or one could think, more accurately, that Sherlock just didn’t like not knowing things. “You’re being childish. Tell me the problem.”

“I’m being childish,” John muttered to himself, taking in his surroundings. “Alright, I don’t like being blindfolded. That’s all.”

Sherlock loomed over him, assessing. “You don’t like being physically unable to control your sense of sight?” he rephrased.

“Er, yeah,” John agreed. “I mean, it’s not a big deal, we can do the blindfold sometimes if you really—“ Right, wrong tactic.

“Oh, can we?” Sherlock replied sarcastically. “Thank you so much for your _permission_ , John.”

John tipped his head back on the pillow in defeat. “Could you take it as a bloody compliment for once,” he suggested, possibly getting himself more into trouble, “that occasionally I forget you’re only giving me the _illusion_ of choice here?”

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him—expertly, thoroughly, hungrily. When he pulled back a few inches John was panting. “You closed your eyes,” Sherlock noted.

“Yes.”

“Will you promise to keep your eyes closed on your own, with the understanding you’ll be able to open them should an emergency arise?”

“D’you want me to sign a contract to that effect?” John responded a bit peevishly. He didn’t much like the teasing either, but that seemed non-negotiable.

“No, John,” Sherlock told him patronizingly. “I will take your verbal assent as guarantee enough.” Somehow, a verbal assent sounded extremely sexy when Sherlock said it in a low voice, punctuated by nibbling John’s earlobe.

“Yes, I promise,” John agreed quickly.

“Then you may begin now,” Sherlock allowed. “If you’re able to fulfill this promise, the blindfold will not be necessary in the future.”

“Good deal,” John gasped out, keeping his eyes tightly shut.


End file.
